


Would You Have Preferred Dead Mice?

by BosieJan



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Petopher Appreciation Week 2016, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-05
Updated: 2016-12-05
Packaged: 2018-09-06 17:37:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8762596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BosieJan/pseuds/BosieJan
Summary: Chris wasn't expecting to come home to find needed items mysteriously returned to him, but he supposed it was better than finding dead animals on his doorstep.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is my 'Monday - Romance' submission for Petopher Appreciation Week 2016. It's pure crack, and not meant to be taken seriously.

Chris had heard of cat owners discussing their pets’ strange behaviour, when offering gifts to them. Cats brought dead animals; mice, squirrels, rats. Dogs often brought their own toys as a sign of willingness to share, or small animals they’d found but not themselves killed. Chris didn’t particularly own Peter, but the werewolf had become a fairly stable piece of content within Chris’ apartment since the nogitsune had been defeated.

 

It started shortly after the darach had been killed, and life in Beacon Hills had once again slowed to what most people perceived as normal. Chris put up with Allison’s comings and goings with Lydia, and Scott’s pack tried to tolerate high school without causing any more of a ruckus than they already had. Chris came home from a gun deal and found a note from Allison on the desk in the front hall, saying she’d be at Lydia’s for the night. He took it at face value and assumed that it didn’t have anything to do with the new supernatural stirrings in town. She was almost an adult, and Chris respected her privacy.

 

The note meant that Allison had been gone for the day to school then would likely be going home with Lydia afterward, so it didn’t explain the unlocked cabinet in his study, or the still damp, recently washed mug sitting in his sink.

 

Nor did it explain the fist-sized piece of snowflake obsidian sitting on his kitchen counter, its surface brilliantly polished and just begging to be touched.

 

Nothing seemed to be missing from his cabinet so Chris locked it back up, then thoroughly checked the apartment for anyone laying in wait. No windows were unlocked and no forced entry seemed to have happened, but the entire thing was a mystery. Chris needed the obsidian for something Deaton had mentioned--a ritual anyone could perform (with a little help), that would protect anyone whose hands touched it after the spell was done. It wasn’t a particularly hard item to come across, but Chris needed more than a piece the size of a quarter. 

 

He dismissed it as Allison having overheard his phone conversation with Deaton, and finding it herself, though where she may have found it, Chris wasn’t sure. He’d exhausted the search locally, as only small pieces were sold as souvenirs in gift shops, and northern California didn’t have a big collection of obsidian handy. Sure, Chris could head southeast to Glass Mountain and the Inyo crater fields, but that would be a day’s trip--if not two--and it was only for a silly spell that likely wouldn’t even do its job.

 

A month later, after a bout of mental instability from Allison and a surprisingly difficult fight with Stiles at the center, Chris came home to find a handful of proximity sensors in a canvas bag, laying on his diningroom table. Allison knew better to leave things like that laying out in the open and Chris was sure he hadn’t left them there, but when he checked their serial numbers, he recognized them as missing alarms, left out in the Preserve when they were hunting Derek’s sister and one of Derek’s wild betas.

 

He narrowed his eyes in suspicion this time, now almost positive that something strange was going on. Chris ran the ideas past Allison later that night and took her words at face value. No forced entry. Allison promised that it wasn’t her leaving things about. Was the mental issue seemingly affecting Scott, Stiles, and Allison also affecting himself? Chris hoped not because a hunter with a broken mind was just as dangerous as a werewolf with a broken one, but then it dawned on him.

 

Maybe it was a  _ broken werewolf _ doing the break-in’s.

 

“No, I don’t know where Peter was that first time you mentioned, but I know he was here all this week,” Derek answered over the phone, sounding somewhat exasperated by Chris’ questions. “Scott and Stiles came by a few times to consult us, and Peter was always here when they showed up. He doesn’t go out much.”

 

“But when he  _ does _ go out, where does he  _ go, _ Derek?” Chris asked, frustrated. 

 

“Not to your place. He thinks it smells too much like wolfsbane, so he stays clear of it. It gives him headaches way worse than it does to the rest of us.”

 

Chris held his breath, then started again. “How does he know it smells like that?”

 

He could hear Derek thinking about his next response, as if what Derek had said had caught the young werewolf in a lie. His silence was telling. “It’s not Peter, Chris. Stop alienating him.”

 

“He’s a monster, Derek. I don’t care how useful you, or Stiles, or Scott think he is; he’s dangerous.”

 

“I think we’re done here,” Derek said curtly, hanging up. 

 

Chris swore to himself and then started setting up the trail cameras throughout the apartment and in the yard surrounding it, hiding them as well as he could. He had to consider that if it really was Peter breaking into his apartment, he was an intelligent person and not some ignorant wild game. He’d notice the cameras if they were left in the open.

 

It took two more weeks and another fight between the teens and everyone else, but Chris came home to his favourite type of take-out in the fridge--mulligatawny soup and falafel--alongside a six pack of his preferred beer. It definitely wasn’t Allison this time; she neither knew his favourite take-out (he’d told her it was pizza because the soup was difficult to make and the only place that offered it on their take-out menu was a two hour drive from Beacon Hills), nor could she buy beer at seventeen years of age. The soup container still felt warm, and Chris’ hackles were immediately up, as he realized he’d only missed the intruder by minutes.

 

Chris reviewed the trail cameras as he dialed Derek back up, pausing the feed when he saw his front door open to the elevator hallway, and in stepped Peter with a plastic shopping bag and a smile on his face. 

 

“He’s right here on my trail cam, Derek! He came in through the goddamn front door, put dinner and beer in my fridge, and then left! How the hell’s he getting in without a key?”

 

Derek sighed over the phone, his tolerance of Peter’s bullshit about as high as his levels for the rest of the world’s. “Sounds like a security problem you need to look into, but we can’t pick locks without tools. Our claws would deform the lock and make it look really obvious. Maybe he’s got a key from somewhere.”

 

“Where, though? Allison’s got hers, I’ve got mine, and-”

 

“Peter’s got Isaac’s,” Derek said suddenly, the dawning of realization making him sound almost at awe with the simplicity of the statement. “Isaac left some of his things here, since he’s been staying at Scott’s a lot.”

 

“That son of a  _ bitch _ .”

 

“Chris, I’m sorry, I-”

 

Chris had no time for Derek’s apologies, and he sighed as he hung up. He knew Derek hadn’t been lying to him and had only just put two and two together himself. Peter was as dangerous as he was secretive, and nothing he did was ever fully divulged to his nephew. Giving away his hand would be tantamount to suicide, and Peter loved himself too much to die.

 

The soup and the falafel were eaten even though Chris’ mind was telling him not to, that it might be poisoned. But he was sure Peter wouldn’t do something as stupid as threaten or harm a hunter whose friendship had become important to Derek. Chris’ friendship with Scott be damned, Peter didn’t want Chris dead. They had too much history.

 

Waiting in the apartment for Peter would be pointless, as Peter would surely notice both Chris’ scent and his heartbeat within seconds of getting in. The elevator was Peter’s only means to get up to Chris’ apartment, since it opened into his foyer and the apartment didn’t have immediate access to the stairwell. It had a fire escape, but Peter had seemingly never used it.

 

Chris left the apartment two days later and waited in the stairwell next to the laundry room of the building, the scents of detergents and dryer sheets sure to at least mask his own smell, and the thunder of the machines hiding his heartbeat. By the grace of technology, Chris watched his trail cameras, as Peter exited his vehicle--a dark SUV Chris hadn’t remembered Peter ever owning before--and made his way inside toward the elevator. 

 

Chris waited until the elevator doors closed and immediately started up the stairs, running until he was puffing just so he could go from the third floor to the sixth and push the button for the elevator to go up. He held his breath so his heart rate would slow considerably and when the elevator dinged, Chris took the gun out of his waistband and held it to the side, not wanting to make the mistake of holding it on someone not Peter, in case Peter had gotten off early and someone else had gotten on.

 

The doors opened and Chris was instantly on alert, Peter’s smile saucy as well as feral, and his hands held aloft as if in surrender. There was another white plastic bag on the floor beside him, and the elevator smelled suspiciously like candy. Something sweet and unhealthy that Chris couldn’t automatically place, but had definitely smelled before.

 

“Hello, Christopher,” Peter said smoothly, gesturing with a tilt of his head that Chris should come inside before the doors closed. Chris did just that, and the doors closed behind him to complete their journey upward. “I suppose the game is up, hm?”

 

“Ten seconds to explain, before I either shoot you, or drag you back to Derek’s behind my car, with a wolfsbane rope around your neck.”

 

Peter snorted softly and lowered his arms, as unarmed as a werewolf could be, save for the possibility of claws or fangs making an appearance. “Thought you could use some companionship, is all.”

 

Chris gave Peter a sour look. “Companionship? Is that why you’ve been breaking into my apartment and not making phone calls like a normal person would?”

 

“No, that’s why I’ve been breaking into your apartment and leaving tokens of my appreciation for you, idiot,” Peter retorted, the words coming out as if he were baffled by Chris’ ignorance. 

 

“Phone calls, Peter.  _ Words _ . People use words when they want to communicate. This isn’t high school anymore, and I’m not a goddamn werewolf. I don’t know this shit.”

 

The elevator stopped and the doors opened to the foyer of Chris’ apartment, allowing Chris to step off as he tucked the pistol back into his waistband and turned his back on Peter. Their history proved that Peter was dangerous and untrustworthy, but also partial to certain people and not inherently dangerous to them. 

 

“Come on, let’s see whatever you’ve got in the bag this time. Smells like it’s something sickeningly sweet, but I could use it after the week I’ve had.”

 

Peter placed the bag on the counter and unpacked the white box from inside it, the label from a bakery Chris definitely knew well, and had bought things from in the past. As soon as the lid was lifted and the bright white icing was made visible, Chris smiled. It was an oversized cinnamon bun, drenched in thick, white cream cheese frosting. 

 

“Happy Birthday, hunter,” Peter said quietly, the years of threat and pain he’d caused Beacon Hills and the danger he presented to Chris and the others almost forgotten. “No candles, I’m afraid.”

 

Chris snorted this time, angry with himself for not recognizing the break-in’s and gifts for what they were at the time: offerings. Petr was trying to weasel his way back into Chris’ life in the only way he knew how.

 

“I’m fine without candles. You, uh...gonna stay for a piece? Allison’d kill me if she thought I bought this and planned on eating it all myself.”

 

“Of course, but only if you turn off the cameras.”

 

Chris stared for a second, then glanced around. The trail cams were still recording of course and though he knew where they were placed, they were hard to pick out from a distance. “How’d you know?”

 

“Derek told me. I think he was warning me off, since he’s oblivious to the history you and I have. I wasn’t lying when I told Scott that he wasn’t the first person to climb into a hunter’s bed. Seems to be a running theme with werewolves around here. First you and I, then Derek and Kate. Scotty and your daughter. We like danger, I guess.”

 

“You werewolves just like Argent’s, that’s what this is.”

 

“You’re damn right we do. Now, cut this thing and have some, because I think we’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”

 

“Before or after I turn off the cameras?” Chris asked, the promise of filthiness beginning to loosen his tongue.

 

Peter smiled, scooped up some of the icing with one finger, then licked it right off. It was a stereotypical, predictable thing for him to do, but Chris felt himself shiver nonetheless.

 

“Before.”

 


End file.
